


Moving Out

by Doordox



Series: The Memoirs of James "Jim" Gordon [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: (For Stardew), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Jim Gordon & Bruce Wayne Friendship, Or not, Retirement, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28554582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doordox/pseuds/Doordox
Summary: Jim Gordon decides to retire to the countryside and write that book he's been threatening to write...
Relationships: Jim Gordon & Barbara Gordon, Jim Gordon/Sara Gordon (Past)
Series: The Memoirs of James "Jim" Gordon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092137
Kudos: 8





	Moving Out

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic came about from the moment I realized a certain mustache in Stardew Valley made you look like Commissioner Gordon. This was followed by several days of roleplaying and several months of not writing. Shoutout to my beta-readers who yelled at me enough to post this, and walked me through what all these weird tags mean.

Moving Out

This is it. Last day in the old house. Last day in this damnable city. Last few hours, really. Everything’s packed in boxes, on it’s way to some storage unit in the county. Barbara had it done last week, while I was being cleared from the hospital. Just a physical. Doctor wanted to be sure there was no lingering aftermath of that fiasco of a “retirement party”. Clean bill of health. Clean as I’m gonna get anyway; Pacemaker still works, cancer risk isn’t any worse than when I stopped smoking. Blood pressure’s still shot to all hell, but what else is new.

For the record: No. I don’t want to talk about my fucking retirement party.

I wanna say I’m gonna miss the old Gordon residence. You’re supposed to feel something, leaving a place you’ve lived nearly 30 years, right? My kids were born here. Some of the happiest times of my life were in this house, with Barb, the kids. 

Sarah. 

Maybe it’s my bad mood, or the fact my life for the past 30 years has been reduced to cardboard boxes on the kitchen floor or in a truck somewhere, but I feel more anxious than wistful. A tension in the chest, a breath that’s being held longer and longer. The kitchen window is open. Spring breeze in the Gotham suburbs. Air smells like ozone and smog. Forecast on the radio says a high chance of thunderstorms later in the day.

I do one last walk of the place, looking to ease the uneasy feeling. Antsy. Always antsy. Not a day goes by that I don’t want a cigarette, just to have something to hold, despite kicking the habit on doctor’s orders. Kicked it twice, in fact (picked it up again during that month He decided to go AWOL.) I fiddle with a toothpick instead, gnaw on it. Tastes like sawdust and saliva.

It dawns on me how little I was here, as I walk through the living room. How little of this space I’ve really  _ used _ the past couple of years. The kitchen. My office, the bed and bath connecting it. The little weight set in the basement I used. Before my semi-retirement, those were all the rooms I used. Everything else... feels like a long time ago. Some faded photographs of happier times.

There’s a knock at the door downstairs, and that tension in my chest tightens. It’s probably the realtor come to check on the packing process, or some well-wisher come to check on the Old Man. Probably. There are two armed plainclothes GCPD officers stationed on my front porch, “for my safety.” They’re supposed to vet anyone who comes within twenty feet of the property. Each has a panic button they can trigger if threatened, and a Dead Man’s Switch wired to WayneTech biometric armbands checking their vitals, primed to send a signal to Dispatch and Crisis Control if anything goes amiss. There are other precautions, training protocols these guys have undergone in order to work the Protection Detail. I helped write the training program, approved the budget requests. I’m familiar with their skills.

I also know the definition of “security theatre”. I check the camera feed on my phone, then the peep-hole itself, before undoing the many locks.

You never let down your guard in Gotham. You do that, you’ll get a quick death if you’re lucky. 

And my luck is terrible.

“Detective MacDonald! Please, come in. It’s good to see you.” 

It’s only Josie, smiling, cradling gifts under her arm. Nothing to worry about. I smile and let her in, pretending to be surprised to see her, that I hadn’t recognized the familiar dark hair and wry smile, bright, intelligent eyes, that her proffered gifts hadn’t been checked and logged and chemically scanned by the plainclothes outside already. A good cop, Josie plays along. Even gives me a hug. Small concessions, feeble little play-attempts at normalcy. This is what Gotham does to you.

“And you, Commissioner, sir. We heard today was the day. Sawyer wanted me to run these over.”

She’s brought a card and flowers, from Sawyer and all of the rest of them. My ‘other kids’, Barbara calls them, when she wants to tease. Hand-picked detectives for the Special Crimes Division, founded by yours truly. Good cops, good people, in short supply in this damn city. 

“I’m not Commissioner anymore, Josie.”

“Yessir. Whatever you say, sir.” She tips an imaginary salute while the boys vet the last of her stuff. Some weird boxes, file-holders of some sort. 

“Smart-ass.”

“One last thing, sir. The boys in Records were looking through everything... Public Relations wants to do a retrospective. They put together a sort of “highlight” reel for the papers. Old case-files, paper clippings, tapes of press conferences. They made copies. Figured you’d like to have some souvenirs.”

Another cardboard box to add to the pile.I give it a weary look.  
“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to your own personal collection, sir-”

“No, that’s... real thoughtful of them, Josie. Tell ‘em thanks for me.”  
“Sure thing, sir. It’s been an honor. ” Josie salutes, that smirk of hers still there.   
“An honor to serve, Josie. Tell the others thanks. Don’t let the city go to hell now that I’m gone.”

“Yessir. We won’t let you down.”

I want to believe her. And for a moment, I do. As I said, she’s a good cop.

If only that was all we needed.

\---

I’m giving the keys to the realtor when Barbra comes to pick me up. The realtor recognizes her from the campaign button on my shirt and the sign on my lawn, and shakes her hand, all smiles.

“We’re just about finished up here, Congresswoman. Once you’re all packed up, we’ll make the listing public. Don’t worry about the sale, my firm and I will handle the details. Your father will be free to enjoy his retirement.” 

I wonder how much a collector might pay for the property. “The House of James Gordon.” Gotta be a hell of a listing. Maybe she’s already started soliciting offers. Not that I really care. It was never about the money for me.

Barbra gives me a hug, and we sit together on the porch while the plainclothes load her car, which sits in the driveway like some squat black beetle. One of those new electric WayneTech beasts, the self-driving kind. Barbra doesn’t even need to touch the wheel.

She’s watching me closely. Trying to puzzle out my mood, not that I could hide anything from her. Her lip quirks in a frown. 

“You doing okay, Dad?”

Stormclouds are coming in from the bay now. They’ll be on Gotham within the hour.

“Wanna get going.” I squeeze her hand. “Should leave soon, if we’re gonna beat the rain.” 

“You sure you wanna head straight out? We could do one last tour of the city. Say goodbye to all the old haunts.”

I contemplate my city, squatting over the mouth of the bay like the head of some sunken steel giant, sucking the sea in. The skyline’s not as familiar as it once was. From where we sit, it’s just as alien as it was to me when I first saw it from the window seat of my train car. Back then, I felt I was being swallowed, the buildings getting taller and denser the closer we got to Gotham Union Central. Now though, I’m spat out, chewed up and discarded like the hardened pit of a cherry. Flotsam caught in the eddy currents of the suburbs. Memories bubble up unbidden, bile at the back of my throat. Out. I wanna get out of here. This city doesn’t deserve any more goodbyes.

“Yeah,” I say at last. Wouldn’t do any good to worry Barbra. “It’s a long drive, kiddo. Should start it soon as we can.”  
Her phone rings as we get in the car. She checks the number quickly, puts her phone to silent.  
“If you need to take it, hon, I understand.” She shouldn’t be here, helping me move halfway across the country. She’s got a re-election campaign to manage, she can’t spare any time. I tried to tell her I’d be fine, but she’s stubborn.

“No, Dad. It’s fine.” She has this tone she uses when she wants to be stubborn and wants you to know it. It’s gotten plenty of use since her election. “They’ll manage perfectly fine without me for a few days. Congress is out on recess. And anyway, it’s a ‘human interest story’, according to my poll guys. We’re fine.” 

It takes a little bit of time for the GPS to figure out the route. The fact it was so remote was part of the reason I chose it in the first place.

“Campaign’s going well, then?”  
We pull off the freeway, onto the Rob Kane Memorial Bridge. Start making our way into Gotham. Even when you’re trying to leave, the gravity well of the place pulls you in. Even if it’s for the last time.

“You’re worried about me still~ You don’t need to be. Let me worry about  _ you _ for a few days.”

“I’m your father, I always worry.”

It’s times like these that she reminds me the most of her mother.   
“I know. And I love you, so I put up with it.”  
We’re cutting through Downtown now. I catch myself reminiscing, even though I told myself I wouldn’t, even though I don’t want to. This is my last drive through Gotham. I’m almost out of here. Almost free. My chest feels tighter than ever. I check to see if we’re being followed. Check again. God, do I want a cigarette.  
“Dad? You okay?” She’d been saying something.

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m fine, kiddo. Lost in thought.”

She puts her hand in mine and squeezes.

\---

**“END OF AN ERA: CITY SAYS GOODBYE AND THANKS TO COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON”**

My face is reflected back at me in newsprint, replicated in the thousands as we pass newsstands and magazine stalls.

‘ _ In this special retrospective, the Gotham Gazette would like to take a look at the career and impact of former police commissioner James “Jim” Gordon, officially retired as of this past Monday. Gordon’s near 35-year career of serving this city began- _ ’

“Where’d you find the place anyway, Dad? Never even knew you had it.”  
“All that time as Oracle, you never looked into your old man? I’ve had it for decades. First bought the place back when I worked with Chicago PD.”  
“That long ago?”  
“Mm-hm. Before you were born kiddo. I had some hint my corruption investigation was starting to go places. With your mother and I trying to have a kid, I figured it’d be prudent to have a place out of town for her to stay. Just in case.”

The city rolls by. Sleek, gleaming steel and glass. Plenty of the 20th-century architecture got flattened by the quake years back. These new buildings still look as good as the day they went up. Like a facelift, to hide all the scars. 

“Mom wouldn’t have been happy about that. She’d never have gone for it.”  
“Well, you’re right there. She didn’t, things _did_ get hot, and she stuck by me till it all blew over. But I felt better knowing it was there, just in case. Afterward, when I transferred to Gotham, I held onto it. Just in case I needed it.”

“Did you ever?”  
“What, need it?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really. I kept it stocked as a safehouse, but a safehouse five states away isn’t the most practical thing. I haven't even seen the property in decades. Some local’s been minding it for me.”

_ ‘After making a series of high profile arrests tied to the corrupt 1983 Chicago Mayoral election, Gordon transferred to GCPD as a Lieutenant and quickly made a name for himself as a cop of principle and character, at a time when police corruption was the norm in Gotham City...’ _

_ ‘Gordon’s promotion to Commissioner came at a time of change to Gotham... would face a number of challenges in his time as... most famously the arrival of the Batman, and the slow and steady shift of the criminal underworld from mobsters like Guisseppe Bernitelli... [t]o monsters like ‘Clayface’ and The Joker...’ _

I watch myself go grey in the newsprint. A timeline of my career laid out in black and white. My appointment to Gotham PD. The first press conference. Me and Harvey, shaking hands for a photo-op, with half his face cast in shadow. Me shaking the hands with one, two, three, four mayors. Liberman. Krol. Marion Grange, the best we ever had. Chesterfield. I keep going back to that picture of Harvey. Seems like I remember this face less and less. The good we did together.

“Speaking of goodbyes, Dad... Have you heard anything from _him_?”  
Suddenly my leg aches. My almost constant headache gets worse. I look out the window a long moment. Rain warps my view, obscuring the streets and rooftops from view. Not that I would see him if I looked. Relic like him doesn’t go walking on rooftops anymore.  
“No. Nothing. We spoke briefly after I announced my retirement, that was it.”

“Do you think it might be nice to-?”  
“No. I want to put it all behind me. Him too. Everything.”

All day long, the tension’s been building. I feel like piano-wire beneath a candle, slowly starting to blacken and groan. I realize I keep waiting for something to happen, a blood-warm certainty in the pit of my stomach. Something. Some explosion, some crisis. The Right People would know, have ways of knowing, today is my last day. That this was their last shot if they wanted to take it. I’ve been attacked on my birthday, on Christmas, at commencement speeches. My daughter’s wedding. The anniversary of Sarah’s death.

My fucking retirement party.

“Special Occasions” in Gotham means looking over your shoulder more than you already do, knowing that whenever  _ it _ happens, odds are you can’t do anything to stop it. Might not even see it coming. 

You wait for the penny to drop, and try to pick up the pieces afterwards. And hope that He shows up fast enough to save your skin.

As we approach the New Trigate Bridge, the rain starts to lighten up. It’s gone completely by the time we hit the city limits. No dropped penny. No catastrophe. No pieces to collect. The tension uncoils slightly. I can exhale. I still check for tails, still scan the skies, the sides of the road, keep watching until we hit the New Jersey/Pennsylvania border.

Then I just feel tired.

_ \--- _

“What do you think you’ll do, once you’re out there?” 

“I don’t know yet, kiddo. Maybe write a book, like everyone wants me to. Write out my memoirs. Maybe fishing. Always wanted to take up fishing.”

She snorts. “Yeah right! _My father_ , a fisherman? I’ll believe that when I see it.”  
“You don’t think I could do it? Maybe I’ll get one of those little hats with all the hooks.”

“I don’t imagine Jim Gordon, best cop Gotham ever saw, being able to sit still long enough to catch a mackerel.”  
We’re sitting in a greasy spoon just off the Illinois-Minnesota border while the WayneTech car charges. Five days of straight driving and father-daughter bonding time. Sleeping on the ground floor of cheap motels. We never did go on a road trip together. There were a lot of things she and I never got the chance to do. 

Sometimes we talk about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes I just look out the window while she answers urgent messages from her campaign staff. It’s beautiful out here. ‘Amber waves of grain’ indeed.

We’re twenty miles away when the GPS loses signal. Damn near ran off the road before I got control of the car again. If we’d been on a busier stretch of highway, it could’ve been bad. Guess even with WayneTech and LexCorp competing to throw cable all over the place, rural USA’s still as isolated as ever. 

“Hang on Dad, let me get the map... What was its name again?”  
“Star-”  
“Got it. Take this exit.”

Pretty soon the road turns from asphalt to dirt. Car doesn’t skip a beat. The sun’s begun to set on the horizon, bathing the surrounding forest and fields in golden tones. A little more driving, and we can see lights in the distance, plumes of smoke from houses.  
“Cute little place, huh? Think you’ll be happy here, Dad?”  
We pass one of those old town limit signs. Looks like it was made in the ’80s:

##  WELCOME TO STARDEW VALLEY

Pelican Town: 0.5 Miles

“Yeah... Think I’ll be happy here.”

  
  
  


\--End of Prologue: Part 1 of 2--

\--The Departure--


End file.
